


The Killing Kind

by duplicity



Series: Shorter Works [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Curse Breaking, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Possessive Tom Riddle, Prince Harry Potter, Romance, Sleeping Beauty Elements, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24672859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: “Perhaps I’ll give you an early kiss for your birthday,” Tom whispers. “Would you like that, Harry?”Harry’s laughter softens out into a weak chuckle, his lovely eyes wide and fixated on the smirk of Tom’s mouth.They’ve kissed before—fleeting snatches of romantic moments away from the prying eyes of the castle’s many occupants—but today is a new day, amagicalday. Today will see the dawn of a new period in their lives: Harry will become his betrothed as well as his beloved.“Soon,” Harry says eventually, when the racing of his heart has slowed to an unremarkable pace. “I want today’s first kiss to be when you wake me from slumber.”Or:Tom Riddle is the love of Harry Potter's life. All he needs to do is wake Harry with a kiss.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Shorter Works [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975801
Comments: 144
Kudos: 513





	1. Part I: Summer

**Author's Note:**

> this is my variation on the classic fairy tale of sleeping beauty. i recommend listening to 'the killing kind' by marianas trench, which is where the title of this story comes from.
> 
> the story is fully written and will be posted shortly over the next while. thank you!
> 
> lovely cover art by [Minryll](https://minryll.tumblr.com)! owe her my life and my firstborn now

I roam these halls, search the night

In hopes that I may see

A remnant trace, a glimpse of you

I stare into the deep

Saying I know, I know, I know, I know, I know

I know my love can be

The deep stares back, speaks to me

I know my love can be the killing kind

— _The Killing Kind,_ Marianas Trench.

* * *

* * *

_**Part I: Summer** _

* * *

Harry Potter loves him.

Tom has never doubted this fact, has never had reason to. Even before those fated words slipped between them— _“I love you”_ —the emotion was palpable, physical. 

The feeling is clear in the way Harry’s gorgeous green eyes soften upon seeing him. They ate always eager, always full of joy. Love is visible in the gentle curve of Harry’s beautiful smile, and is audible when the air fills with his laughter, as rich and melodical as the purest of finely-tuned instruments.

Tom could devote hours to poetic descriptions of Harry’s person. From his captivating mind to his alluring physical form, Harry is perfect. 

Harry is everything that Tom desires in a companion, in a life partner, and best of all, Harry is _his._ This is as undisputed as it is certain, much in the way Harry’s love for him is.

Harry loves him in spite of all the differences between them.

Tom is the bastard son of an earl from one kingdom over. He had left his hometown in search of higher accolades, trusting in his talents to deliver him into good fortune. Because Tom has one skill many others do not: he has magic.

This fact he had long since kept to himself, for in the kingdom he was born in, magic was heavily regulated, and children were often indoctrinated into the royal ranks in a wretched form of slavery. Tom had known better, had kept his head down and left the kingdom without trouble. 

(No one cared one way or another when another orphanage whelp went missing.)

In the kingdom of Peverell, the royal family are known for kindness and equality. They are a small nation composed of one castle and one main village surrounded by farms and cottages. After making the correct inquiries, Tom found tutelage under the royal sorcerer, Albus Dumbledore. From there, Tom had advanced his way into all areas of the castle and set his eyes upon the only treasure worth having: Prince Harry James Potter.

Harry was friendly, sociable, and well-known for being kind to the staff. It had been laughably easy for Tom to catch him alone.

Tom had introduced himself, leaning heavily on the natural charms that had seen him thus far in life despite his poor social standing.

Harry had been cautious, then surprised, then delighted.

Tom takes pride in his courting of Harry. He had taken great pains to endear himself to Harry’s parents, to reassure them that he was the perfect match for their son. It is a blessing that neither King James nor Queen Lily care for his lack of nobility.

Not that it mattered; by the time of his official introduction to the King and Queen, he and Harry had become inseparable.

Once Harry is of age, Tom plans to propose. Then they will be wed, their glorious union perpetually sealed.

* * *

Two weeks before Harry’s eighteenth birthday, King James requests their presence in the throne room.

Tom thinks the summons odd at first, then dismisses them entirely. Perhaps the King and Queen are aware of Tom’s intentions, and this meeting will merely confirm that Harry’s parents approve of the impending marriage. 

If not, Tom is not overly concerned, anyhow. Regardless of the King and Queen’s preference, Tom will ask for Harry’s hand, and Harry will say yes.

There have been far too many nobles eyeing Harry as of late. An engagement ring on Harry’s finger will do wonders to dissuade them, and if not, then Tom will find other ways to dispose of these unsavoury suitors.

Harry holds Tom’s hand as they step into the throne room. But when Tom goes to bow, to sink to bended knee, Harry slips an arm around Tom’s waist, holding him in place. There is a gracious smile on Harry’s lips and affection in his eyes. 

The intention is obvious: Harry wants them side by side as equals. Tom wants to purr with satisfaction at this, but he refrains from expressing such smugness given their current audience. 

How lovely is his Harry, to support him in such a way? How loyal and devoted a man he has chosen for his beloved. Tom wets his lips and turns his eyes to the King and Queen.

“Your majesties,” Tom settles for saying, imbibing the formal address with as much reverence as he can muster.

The King and Queen exchange a glance, their expressions unusually somber. Queen Lily twists her hands in her lap, blinking her lovely green eyes. Eyes inherited by her only son.

Tom feels a dark pit open up in his stomach, disastrous scenarios playing in his mind’s eye. Plans for fleeing the kingdom with Harry rattle around in his head like flighty birds. If he and Harry were to flee, Harry’s parents would come for them, surely. And Tom has nowhere to go, no land or soldiers to offer. No protection other than the magic burning in his blood.

Tom squashes his concerns with ruthlessness, reminding himself of his indifference to the opinions of the King and Queen. Harry may love his parents, but he loves Tom _more._

_If it comes to a choice,_ Tom tells himself, _then Harry will choose me._

“This is a difficult subject,” says Queen Lily, “so I shall speak plainly. On the eve of Harry’s first birthday, this kingdom was placed under a wicked curse.” She pauses, then, as her husband lays a large hand over her slender fingers as though to bestow her further courage. “This curse will come to pass on Harry’s eighteenth birthday, when he comes of age.”

“What curse?” Harry demands. “And who cast it?”

The tale, they learn, goes like this:

An evil sorceress named Umbridge was caught luring children into her home and turning them into kittens. Some few lucky ones had escaped the sorceress’s clutches. They described a household of fear and torture. She was spurned and hunted by the kingdom for her wicked crimes, sentenced to death by Queen Lily herself. Upon her capture, the dreadful woman had sought revenge on the royal family, cursing their firstborn before she fled the kingdom.

On the day of his eighteenth birthday, Harry will pierce his finger on some pointed object and fall into a deep sleep, taking the rest of the kingdom with him. 

The kingdom would have been destined to sleep for all eternity if not for the quick thinking of Sorcerer Dumbledore. With a wave of powerful magic, Dumbledore had altered the curse to include a sliver of hope.

True love’s kiss will break the enchantment and free them all from slumber.

For Harry, this news must come as a great shock. For Tom, whose mind is awhirl with revelations, everything now fits into place.

Harry has chosen _him,_ and so no one can protest his heritage, his lack of noble status. While Tom holds Harry’s love in his hands, the King and Queen cannot say no, for they need Tom to save them.

“I see,” Tom says. Victory rages wild in his heart, sporadic in contrast to his slow, measured breaths. “Rest assured your kingdom lies safe with us, your majesties. I would never part from Prince Harry’s side regardless, but knowing that his family and his kingdom requires my aid provides me with further reason to ensure we remain securely bonded.”

King James and Queen Lily incline their heads graciously, likely convinced that their lives are no longer in peril. Everything Tom has ever wanted now lies within grasp. His marriage to Harry, an entire kingdom indebted to him, and his eventual ascension to the throne.

“You will remain by his side for a fortnight,” King James commands. “And we will take no risks until this damnable curse is put to rest.”

“I would see myself nowhere else,” Tom says. “None shall come to harm while I draw breath.”

Harry shuffles closer, drawing Tom’s attention. Looking over reveals that Harry is beaming with pride, with _love._ He gazes upon Tom like one would gaze upon a hero, or a god.

Tom soaks in the worship and offers Harry a dazzling smile in return.

Harry loves him. All the rest will follow from here. 

* * *

The next two weeks pass in a haze of sweet summer weather. Harry takes to running through the garden maze, laughing as he calls for Tom to chase him. It’s unfair, really, because Harry has the advantage of a childhood spent memorizing each twist and turn of the hedges. Tom is forced to keep pace lest Harry slip from his sight and leave him stranded in the network of worn footpaths.

Aside from the game of the maze, Tom alternates between enjoying the warm sun and fleeing for the cool shadows of the castle walls. His lessons with Sorcerer Dumbledore have been progressing with insufferable slowness; Tom is sure that the old man must be hoarding all the best spells and secrets for himself.

If Tom is to learn all the knowledge that Dumbledore has accumulated over a hundred odd years of living, he’ll have to pry tomes and scrolls out of those old, wrinkled hands. Once the ancient fool dies, then Tom will take his place as the royal sorcerer. That position he will keep until Harry inherits the title of King, and then they will rule together.

On the last day of July, Tom is excused from his lessons so he can stay close by Harry’s side. 

Guards follow them wherever they go, much to Harry’s irritation. But Harry cannot order them away as he usually does, for his parents have made clear that Harry is to be watched all day, no exceptions.

Harry clings to Tom’s arm and drags him around the castle, chattering loudly about the most inane subjects. Tom knows this is only for the benefit of the guards, so he hums and nods in response, content to let the familiar sound of Harry’s voice fill his head.

Eventually they end up in the gardens, as Tom suspected they would. Harry must plan to lose the knights assigned to protect him in the mess of hedges. 

“You’ll get us into trouble for this,” Tom murmurs.

Harry tilts his head to the side and winks. “You won’t tell on me, will you, Tom? By royal command, I must insist you keep this thought to yourself.”

Tom heaves an exaggerated sigh, but secretly he delights in the impish way Harry’s eyes light up when faced with an opportunity for mischief. 

Such beauty in those eyes, more precious than any of the rarest gemstones, brighter than any spark of magic Tom possesses. 

“Your eyes shine even without the sunlight,” Tom comments idly. “I sometimes wonder if you are the one made of magic.”

Harry flushes, his cheeks dark with the pleasure of Tom’s words. “Your flattery makes for an excellent birthday gift, but don’t think that it is all I’m expecting,” he teases.

Tom grins and reaches a careful hand to brush at the bangs covering Harry’s forehead, tucking the wild locks away for the time being. The hair will slip back down soon enough, covering up the faint, bolt-shaped scar leftover from Harry’s childhood. Tom presses a thumb against the raised skin for the briefest of seconds before dropping his hand. 

If he could, he would adorn Harry with his own mark; proof that Harry belongs to him and no other. A symbol of affirmation, evidence that the most impactful event of Harry’s life will always be the day they first met.

“You’ll have your gift,” Tom promises, dragging his eyes over Harry’s body, head to toe.

If not for his magical ability, Tom would have worried over presents. What does one gift to a prince, someone who wants for nothing? 

However, Tom can craft the fantastical from the mundane, can conjure resplendent flowers, their petals free of flaws, from thin air. He can offer Harry power that few others can boast of. Power that distinguishes Tom from the rest.

But this time, Tom has something much sweeter planned. He has a beautiful ring, and a promise of their infinite bond.

“I look forward to it,” says Harry, struggling to sound indifferent despite the deepness of his blush. He coughs, clears his throat. “Now, I fancy a good race, don’t you? First one to the hedges wins.”

Tom affects concern, placing a hand to his chest. “I don’t suppose I can deter you from this decision?” he asks. “You must be aware that your mother will remove my head for encouraging your self-endangerment.”

Harry waves an errant hand, wry smile in place. “You worry too much, Tom. Whatever strange ills befall me today, I shall have you with me to kiss me back to good health.”

* * *

Harry has forever been too curious for his own good. Living in a castle does wonders for one’s sense of security, but it does little to instill the wisdom of caution. The King and Queen have been lenient with their only son, permitting him quirks and frivolities that would be unseemly in the royal heirs of larger kingdoms.

Thus it comes as no surprise to Tom when Harry tackles him in the middle of the maze, his breathless peal of laughter ringing in Tom’s ears as the air is knocked out of them both.

“Caught you,” Harry whispers, his mouth brushing against the shell of Tom’s ear.

Tom wraps both arms securely around Harry’s waist, holding fast. “Have you? Or have I caught _you?_ ”

Harry pulls back, his hair in disarray as he gazes down at Tom. His face is full of suppressed mirth. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

With a heave, Tom rolls them over, caging Harry’s hips in with his thighs and pinning Harry’s arms above. “Oh? Is that so, my dear prince?” Tom drags his thumbs delicately over the inner part of Harry’s wrists, where the veins are faintly visible.

Harry laughs again, then pauses as Tom’s dark eyes trail a path towards his lips. Tom can feel Harry’s heartbeat in the center of each wrist, soft and soothing, each pulse just for him. 

Tom tilts forward, dipping his head down so that Harry is forced to meet his gaze. It takes an incredible amount of restraint to hold still, to avoid rolling his hips into the warmth pinned beneath him.

“Perhaps I’ll give you an early kiss for your birthday,” Tom whispers. “Would you like that, Harry?”

Harry’s laughter softens out into a weak chuckle, his lovely eyes wide and fixated on the smirk of Tom’s mouth.

They’ve kissed before—fleeting snatches of romantic moments away from the prying eyes of the castle’s many occupants—but today is a new day, a _magical_ day. Today will see the dawn of a new period in their lives: Harry will become his betrothed as well as his beloved.

“Soon,” Harry says eventually, when the racing of his heart has slowed to an unremarkable pace. “I want today’s first kiss to be when you wake me from slumber.”

Tom can understand this. Now that Harry has suggested it, he even sees it as preferable. Yes, their first kiss today shall be the kiss that saves the kingdom. The kiss that saves his precious Harry from a cursed life of eternal sleep. 

“As your highness insists,” Tom says.

But he can’t quite restrain himself fully—he nuzzles against Harry’s cheek, allowing himself the luxury of Harry’s soft, sweat-dampened skin against his lips for a quick second.

_“Tom,”_ Harry whines, shoving a weak hand at Tom’s chest. “I said _later.”_

Tom hums, but withdraws as requested. “Just having a taste, sweet one.”

“The insolence,” Harry retorts. He sits up, one hand placed on Tom’s chest for balance. “I could have you strung up for this. Or imprisoned. They would not let you style your hair in jail, you know.”

Tom flutters his lashes and licks his lips. There's a faint taste lingering in his mouth that is wholly Harry. “But then who would wake you?”

Harry shifts out from under him, kneeling so that they are facing each other. Tom waits, wondering how Harry will answer, and then Harry moves forward with surprising speed, a coiled snake that has only now decided to strike.

Plush lips land against Tom’s cheekbone, a light touch that freezes Tom in place.

And then Harry is scrambling to his feet, running off, laughing once more as he calls for Tom to follow.

Tom _adores_ the chase. He is the hunter, and Harry is his willing prey. It thrills him to catch Harry again and again—a reminder of how he owns this beautiful boy. From head to toe, Harry is his.

Their footsteps crunch on the gravel paths as Tom seeks the source of Harry’s taunts. He is running, pushing his arms and legs as fast as they can go, prepared to crush Harry in his embrace as soon as he can.

Harry’s taunts lead him deeper into the maze, past the odd, misshapen statues that the King insists are endearing rather than grotesque, past the fig tree that sits in one of the maze’s few open spaces.

“Come and find me!”

Tom pauses, for now he can no longer distinguish which direction the shout comes from. “Harry?”

Harry’s laugh burbles through the hedges. “Given up yet?”

“No,” Tom retorts. _Never._

“Then come,” Harry shouts, “and seek your prince.”

Tom listens for movement, for the telltale noise of heavy leather shoes stomping across the pebble-strewn paths of the garden maze.

A branch snaps somewhere to his right. Tom makes his choice and runs for the rightmost path, intent on his prize. The hedges blur into a wash of green, so unlike the beautiful green whose gaze he wishes to capture. Tom cracks twigs beneath his feet as he rushes towards the next intersection.

“Harry?” he calls again.

No response. Tom strains his ears, focusing on his most immediate surroundings. Still nothing, not even the thump of footsteps.

Irritation sweeps through him. The game is no longer a game when Harry refuses to play fair. Especially not today, when Tom is keenly aware of each passing second they spend apart.

“Harry!” he repeats, raising his voice. “Where are you? This is no longer amusing.”

Where are those damnable guards? Surely they must have entered the maze by now. Tom pivots in place, turning a slow circle.

It is only then that he notices the shadow cast by towering hedges. The shadow that, mere minutes ago, had been less prominent. Tom tips his head back and casts his eyes to the heavens. The blue skies are being consumed by a swath of grey clouds. Those clouds have reduced the sunlight to a weak glow.

_Oh,_ Tom thinks. _It must be time._

* * *

Tom finds Harry sprawled in the center of the maze. Rose bushes abound in reds and pinks, outnumbered only by the multitudes of white lily flowers. Tom is decidedly less disturbed than expected upon seeing his darling prince unconscious on the ground, limbs askew, right arm stretched out towards a vibrant red rose.

Were it anyone else, Tom would have cursed the idiocy of such an act. Why bother with roses when they both knew where it would lead? Pierced skin and a droplet of blood welling on the surface of Harry’s forefinger.

Gazing upon the idyllic scene of Harry surrounded by flowers, Tom feels a puzzling sense of contentment. Harry is beautiful, conscious or not. And now he lies asleep, entirely at Tom’s mercy. 

The entire kingdom is at Tom’s mercy—everyone is fast asleep save for him, a stranger from another kingdom. (Of course, Tom is not arrogant enough to believe he is the only foreigner in this realm, but he must certainly be the only one in the castle.)

With no great hurry, Tom steps to Harry’s side, drops to his knees, and gently pulls Harry across his lap. Harry’s brow is smoothed by sleep, his eyelids drooped shut and his mouth slack. Such a pretty mouth to match a pretty face. Tom caresses Harry’s cheek, cupping the warmth there. Oddly, there is no rise and fall of Harry’s chest. Tom slips his hand to Harry’s neck, curiosity driving his fingertips to touch upon the pulse point. 

No more pounding heartbeat. No more viscous pump of blood through the veins.

No leisurely breathing, no more life.

Tom is surprisingly calm. He adjusts his hold, cradling Harry more securely, the heavy fabric of Harry’s expensive clothing settling like silk against Tom’s work-worn hands. His lovely, trusting prince. Harry must have thought the roses a romantic backdrop. He must have imagined this very scene: his body limp in Tom’s arms while Tom descends upon him with true love’s kiss.

Perhaps it is selfish of Tom to savour this moment. But who will ever know? It is only the two of them in this maze, after all. The rest of the kingdom has either fallen prey to the curse, or been held off by the impenetrable castle walls.

Tom traces the jut of Harry’s lower lip with the tip of his finger, inhales the mix of smells that is composed of Harry’s scent (intensified by exertion), the overpowering fragrance of roses, and the raw, gravelly earth beneath their bodies. 

They could lay like this for hours; Tom would map out each of Harry’s fine features with his fingertips, learning the shape of Harry’s jaw, the strong line of his angular nose, the sculpted muscles of his arms and chest. Tom could lift the eyelids and memorize the colour of those enchanting green eyes.

Every piece of Harry that exists is his to peruse. The information in Tom’s hands is more intimate than the largest library in the world, and the knowledge is simultaneously the heaviest and the lightest burden he has ever known. 

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” chants Tom, tasting each syllable on his tongue, rolling the sound of it in his mouth. “Shall I wake you now? My sleeping prince.”

Harry says nothing, but his body is the perfect weight against Tom’s thighs and arms.

Tom exhales a long breath. He strokes a free hand down the delicate embroidery of Harry’s vest, tracing the pattern of the lion stitched on the left side.

No matter how fascinating Harry is in this nebulous form, mind and body trapped between life and death, his consciousness is much more preferable. 

Without life, without the animation of Harry’s personality, the physical form is merely a static work of art. Lovely to view, no doubt, and able to occupy Tom’s attention for an extended period of time, certainly—but it lacks the definitive spark that fuels Tom’s earnest obsession. 

Harry is the subject of his impassioned infatuation, the cause of his all-consuming need to _claim_ that which has drawn him in. When Tom thinks of Harry, _dreams_ of him, he is struck by a desire more powerful than any magic.

These thoughts in mind, Tom lowers his head and applies a delicate kiss to Harry’s slackened lips.

Then he caresses Harry’s cheek, waiting.

“Harry, darling,” Tom whispers. “It is time for you to return to me.”

The sleeping prince does not wake. 

Harry does not respond to the calls of his beloved. His eyes remain shut, his expression empty and lifeless. The heart within his chest remains silent.

Tom kisses him again. 

And again. 

And again.

And—

A slow tide of horror rises within Tom at each repeated failure. The promised solution is slipping away from him. Harry is supposed to wake with true love’s kiss. Harry must _wake up._

The sun, high above, is barely visible through the blanket of heavy clouds; the shadows around Tom are darkening and lengthening with every passing moment. Tom clenches his jaw and curses the day Dumbledore was born, for this failure must lie at his doorstep. Nevertheless, this will not stand.

If not Dumbledore’s magic, then another’s. 

If not Tom’s kiss, then his magic. 

Determined, Tom draws upon his core, the center of himself that contains his power, and pulls the energy into his hands. He knows no incantation for this, but his will is strong and his intent is infallible.

_Life. I will give this body life._

Magic flows like a river, chest to shoulder to elbow to palm. Tom can feel the threads; his awareness of them is the same as his awareness of his own physical form. Magic is a part of him. It lives in his blood and hugs every fibre of his being.

The desire to bestow life becomes a chant in his mind. Create life, _give_ life. Tom will sacrifice years of his own lifespan if it means reuniting himself with Harry.

_Life, animation, creation. Awaken._

Tom forces the concepts to manifest, pours his magic out and into Harry’s unresponsive body. Harry cannot remain like this. He cannot. Tom will not allow the most valuable part of his entire existence to become lifeless. His most treasured. The boy who loves him.

Grass begins to sprout from the ground, pushing through the lumpy gravel. Flowers are twisting up around them, blooming, each blossom composed of the most pristine petals, flawless representations of nature’s presence. Vines burst forth, curling inwards, fondling Harry’s arms and legs.

Tom feels his body tremble with strain. The agitation feels unnatural, a creeping itch beneath his skin that he wants to claw out with bloody hands. He wants to claw up all these flowers with his bare hands, to tear the life force out of them and push it into Harry’s frozen heart.

Desperate, Tom kisses Harry again, strokes Harry’s forehead with as much care as he can muster. Why does it not work? Does Harry not love him? Distraught, Tom examines Harry’s peaceful face, wondering if everything he has done has been for naught. Wondering if the very fact he had been so assured of is nothing but a lie.

No, that cannot be. 

Besides, he has no time. There is _no time_ to think on that. 

Tom must save Harry first, then think on the ramifications later.

Tom scoops Harry into his arms—bridal style—and weaves a careful sling of magic to support the weight. The sling diminishes Harry’s weight to the point where it is comparable to a small child’s. Manageable, given Tom’s weakened state. Tom tightens his arms and looks to the various openings in the hedges.

Now to get out of this damnable maze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be posted a lot faster if people leave encouraging comments :)


	2. Part II: Fall

_**Part II: Fall** _

* * *

The Sorcerer’s experimental chamber is empty. Wide, rectangular room with a back shelf of neatly-organized books and potions. Tom deposits Harry’s body upon the large worktable in the center of the room, stopping only to smooth back the mess of inky hair, leaving Harry’s face free of obstruction.

“Books,” Tom mutters, pacing over to the door that leads to the storage room. There are books there, locked away and protected by spells. Tom would have never dared to do this normally, for the old man would have his ways of finding out, but in this case it is a necessity.

Tom goes straight for the cupboard at the back of the room and tears the lock off with a savage blast of magic. Though his magical reserves are quickly dwindling, his resolution is unshakable. He _will_ succeed.

The protections inside the cupboard are harder to dismantle. Tom has to narrow his concentration down to just the contents of the casket so he can focus on breaking it open. The magic crumbles under his will, and the casket pops open, revealing withered leather books and scrolls that must have the secrets he seeks.

Emboldened, Tom yanks the books out and brings them over to the table. Necromancy is what he’s searching for. A practice of magic that is sought by the intrepid and the truly powerful. There is plenty of material to cover, but Tom is nothing if not a prodigy.

Pages upon pages of charts and diagrams. Endless lists of ingredients for rituals that will raise the dead.

But Harry is not dead. He cannot be. Harry is _warm,_ and Tom can discern the faint presence of the soul that remains in Harry’s body.

If it is only a matter of reanimating the form, of drawing the soul into the body properly, then Tom is sure he can fix this.

Ignoring hunger, ignoring thirst, Tom spends the rest of Harry’s birthday in the thralls of fevered research. Harry will come back to him. There is no other way to quell the hysterical creature inside of him that calls for its beloved to be returned to them.

* * *

Outside the castle walls, the skies continue to darken. 

Along the perimeter, something creeping and sinister takes root in the ground.

In the kingdom of Peverell, separated from the rest of the world, the air begins to turn a frosty, bitter cold.

* * *

Days later, Harry sits up and examines his arms and torso with a detached interest. By the worktable, Tom looks a mess—unkempt and unshaven, purple bruises under his eyes, his face sallow and haunted. He stares at Harry like he’s starving for the sight.

Slowly, Harry swings his legs through the table and sets them upon the floor. He raises a hand to hover next to Tom’s pale cheek. 

His hand is transparent.

“Oh, Tom,” whispers Harry. “What have you done?”

Tom cannot touch him, cannot hold him. But they can see each other now. They can speak. Tom reaches for Harry, a futile attempt at contact, and feels a chill wash through him as Harry’s intangible shape slips through his fingers.

“I can fix this,” Tom mumbles. He needs Harry to believe him. “I have you with me now. I will fix this.”

Harry’s shoulders slump, green eyes a glassy pool of immobile tears. His body is grey tinged with blue—transparent and not quite glowing. 

Tom tears his gaze away, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“I love you,” Harry says. “I love you no matter what.”

_I love you even if you do not love me in return._

Harry’s honesty is unbearable. It shames Tom for his failure, for a failure he has now been forced to face. An inability to love. Tom had grown from infancy to adulthood without a scrap of it; only now does he realize how little he understands of what true love means. 

“You need to eat, Tom. You must take care of yourself. Have you left this room at all?” Harry’s hand settles just above Tom’s shoulder, leaving a small gap of air between them. Still, Tom represses a shiver at the icy aura that Harry emits.

Tom has been in this chamber for some time. There are no windows here, and so there is no way to distinguish the passage of time. If he was to look outside, he would expect the continued absence of sunlight; a further sign of the wicked curse that has overtaken the kingdom.

“Let us go to the kitchens,” Harry insists. “I would like to see the rest of the castle.”

Tom has subsisted on conjured water and supplementary potions. His limbs may be weak, but his magic is strong. Still, if he is to restore Harry to his proper form, then he must care for himself as Harry has demanded.

They leave the workroom. Tom had paid little attention to the corridors in his initial haste to bring Harry here, but now he lays eyes on the unconscious bodies scattered throughout the castle. Guards and servants alike, all fast asleep, no life in their hearts. 

Harry is saddened by the dreadful scene. He lingers next to the people he knows, the faithful citizens he had been raised around.

Tom wants to offer words of comfort, but his chest feels empty. Even a mimicry of basic human interaction seems beyond his current capabilities. The golden high of summer is but a faded memory, washed away by the horror of this new reality. All he knows now is the cold frigidity of the castle walls, and the illusory likeness of Harry’s unearthly green eyes.

The torches on the walls are long dead, and so Tom conjures a fire spirit and sets it down upon the ground. The miniature lion scouts the path ahead, bringing light to the empty hallways.

Once in the kitchens, Tom sorts through what is available. He expects decay—molding of fresh produce and spoiled meats. What he finds is a perfectly serviceable kitchen full of untouched food.

“I suppose everything is frozen, like with the people,” Harry comments. “All for the best, I should think.”

The meal itself is awkward. Harry cannot consume anything, and so Tom goes through the motions alone. His stomach finds the idea of most foods repulsive—he eventually settles for a thick slice of plain bread with a spread of berry jam on top. The food seems safe to eat, even if Tom finds the taste of it bland on his tongue.

He will not starve here, at least. This is a meager comfort. 

Tom alternates between watching and not watching Harry. How he wishes that the sight of his lover would bring him joy. Instead, it brings a mixture of joy and misery. The object of his obsession is now a pale imitation of itself. 

This is not the same Harry that Tom had thought himself to be in love with. This is a quiet, muted version. There is a deep sadness etched into the lines of Harry’s face that has yet to clear. 

_Harry no longer belongs on this plane of existence,_ Tom thinks. _He no longer belongs here with me._

A throb of agony builds deep in his chest, a crushing press against his lungs. His bereavement will be the death of him. He mourns the love he should have possessed.

But what is love, if not the wretched pain he experiences at being separated from his beloved? What is love, if not the product of everlasting preoccupation and devotion? Tom cannot bear the thought of a life without Harry. Is this desire not powerful enough? Is his will not ironclad?

Tom feels like a madman, to be moved so violently by these thoughts. He swallows around his dry throat, lifts his eyes to the phantom form of his darling. His Harry.

“I love you,” Tom says, testing the words out. The words sound monotone, hollow; they echo off the walls of the empty kitchen.

Harry smiles blankly in response. The veil of sorrow does not fade from Harry’s face, and Tom has never felt fear more keenly than he does in this moment. If he loses Harry, he knows he will lose himself in the process, in the madness of trying to rescue Harry from the clutches of this hellish curse.

If he loses Harry, he will be deprived of the love that had once brought him unimaginable delight.

If he loses Harry, he will waste away here, alone.

* * *

They exit to the gardens shortly after. The bodies of the knights assigned to watch over Harry lay in heaps around the maze. Tom recognizes most of them as Harry’s usual guard. Around the knights, the hedges look the same as ever: wild and unforgiving.

“They tried their best,” Harry says. “But this was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

Tom makes a vague noise in response and peers up at the sky. Not a single ray of sunlight; there is only the oppressive grey gloom signalling an approaching storm.

“Farewell to summer,” says Harry, tracking Tom’s absent gaze.

Tom walks back towards the castle. The dreary, humid air outside does nothing but disturb him. Harry trails behind, his expression contemplative as he phases in and out of the walls. Tom averts his eyes, the better to pretend that everything is fine, that Harry is perfectly solid.

They enter the royal wing, where Harry’s chambers are located. Tom pushes the doors of the chamber open. Harry’s room is enormous. Tom gazes upon the luxurious bedding, the rich velvet curtains, and the multitude of pillows and blankets.

Decorative hangings are spaced on the wall opposite the bed. Banners of the kingdom, paintings of his family members. A grand fireplace with a mantle full of trinkets. Then, on the far side, beautiful glass doors that lead out to the balcony.

Harry pulls his arm out from where he’d been dragging it through the wall. “Why are we here?”

Truthfully, Tom isn’t sure. He only knows that he cannot return to the gardens, cannot revisit the den of roses and lilies where Harry’s body had lay motionless. 

“Shall I move you in here?” Tom asks instead. “Would you be more comfortable?”

Harry narrows his eyes. “You’re not worried, are you? That I’ll be frozen in this form indefinitely.”

Tom moves to the bed and peels back the layers. There are stray hairs on the pillow. Tom scoops them up, wraps them in his handkerchief. He might require them later on.

“Tom?”

A wash of cool air alerts Tom to Harry’s near proximity. Tom feels a faint chill against his upper back and shoulder as Harry leans in. His magic resides in Harry’s ghostly form. They are now connected in this unusual manner—one of them essentially dead, and the other very much alive. Tom can feel the magical drain that keeps Harry in his current intangible form.

“Tom,” insists Harry. “I have faith in you. You will wake me properly, without the need for magic or rituals.”

“And you know everything, is that it?” Tom squeezes the handkerchief in his fist, unwilling to turn around. When he speaks again, his voice is cold. “You’re a fool. Have you not realized that I do not love you enough to save you?”

Harry is silent. 

Tom shuts his eyes and stalks away from the bed, exiting the room with nary a glance at the lonely spectre he leaves behind.

* * *

Some period of time later, Harry returns to the experimental chamber. Tom has transferred Harry’s body onto a floating cushion of blankets; he plans to move it up into the royal wing. 

Despite the days that have passed, Harry’s skin remains warm to the touch. Tom keeps his hands away from the bare skin, daring only to touch what is clothed.

Harry floats over, and for the first time since waking, examines his own body.

“Does my hair look like that normally?” Harry asks curiously. He prods at the bangs, which fail to move under his phantom touch.

“Yes,” Tom snaps. “Now stop that.”

Harry removes his hand from the body. “It beckons to me when I draw near.” 

Tom doesn’t ask for clarification. He knows Harry is not meant to exist like this, as a spirit separated from its physical form. It is likely that Harry’s body is calling to be reunited with its soul.

“Come,” Tom says, irritated. “I am moving you to your chambers.”

The walk back across the castle is quiet. Harry hovers silently alongside his body; he no longer drags his fingers through the brick and mortar walls in a display of childish whimsy.

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, repeating the phrase a few times as they walk. “Don’t worry, Tom.”

The mantra does nothing to ease Tom’s nerves, but Tom cannot bring himself to tell Harry to shut up.

Tom moves the body onto the bed, careful to support the head as he deposits it onto the assortment of plush pillows. Then Tom smooths Harry’s clothes of its wrinkles and adjusts the drape of Harry’s unruly curls. 

Now satisfied, Tom yanks the blankets off the bed, instead tucking them around in an arc around Harry’s immobile limbs. A soft cradle of luxurious fabrics to support Harry’s unconscious form.

“Well done,” Harry says. “Now what?”

“Now I return to my research.” There are livestock in the castle that he can practice on.

Harry glides to a halt in front of him. Tom holds back his flinch as Harry douses his shoulders in frigid air, and tries to recall what it felt like when Harry’s real hands used to hold him in place. 

“You will do no such thing,” says Harry.

“Do you enjoy life as a ghost?” Tom asks, incredulous. 

“I said I have faith. You may not know the meaning of it yet, but I will show you how to love.” 

Everything has fallen to ruin, yet Harry fails to relinquish hope. It is lunacy; Harry’s idealism will see him condemned to a cursed half-life for all of eternity. 

“I do not love you,” Tom says angrily, stalking forward.

Harry stumbles and nearly phases backwards through the wall in his shock, his eyes growing wide as Tom slams a hand against the bedpost to emphasize his point. Tom cannot bear it, the kindness in those eyes. The pity and the empathy sickens him to the point of choking.

“I do not,” he repeats harshly. “Perhaps I cannot, ever. Your only hope lies with a heartless bastard who cares only for himself. I would bring you to life and leave the rest to rot. Do you understand? Do you see the truth of it?”

“No,” whispers Harry, stubborn to the last. “I refuse.”

“Then we will _both_ die here,” he hisses, and takes twisted pleasure in the horror now alight in Harry’s eyes.

After an immeasurable moment, Harry passes through the nearest wall and flees.

* * *

Tom returns to the workroom. Now that there is nothing obstructing the table, he finds it easier to think. Clarity has returned to him, yes. He can turn his brilliant mind to the task of resurrecting Harry to proper form.

There are scrolls to translate, books to read. Tasks that will take hours and days and weeks to complete.

Harry stays away for some time. The distance is lengthy; Tom can feel the subtle drain on his magic that reassures him of Harry’s continued existence. 

Tom sees no ghostly apparitions in the corner of his eye and feels no chill save for the natural ambience of the experimental chamber, but this does not bother him. Harry will only be a distraction.

Tom works day and night, summoning food from the kitchens to keep his body functional, breaking for a few hours at a time to sleep and perform basic human functions. He grows used to the solitude and tells himself he does not mind it.

After a week, or maybe more, Harry re-enters the workroom.

“Tom?”

“I’m busy.”

Harry hovers. His face is all scrunched up. “You need to come outside.”

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel the beginnings of a horrible headache throbbing in his temples. “That is the last thing I need. Fresh air will not assist me in solving the problem.”

“No, you must,” Harry says, pleading. “There is a—a barrier. It is hard to describe. It is magic, Tom. You need to see it. Please.”

The begging does him in. Tom always finds it hard to say no when Harry pleads. 

“Fine,” Tom says.

He shoves aside his parchments and stands, stretching his arms and cracking his neck. He says to Harry, in tones of mockery, “Let us see this fantastical, magical barrier.”

The trek is long. Tom has not left the castle in a while, and so the overcast weather harms his eyes. He has to shield himself from the glare—at first with his hand, and then with his magic. Tom locks the castle gate with magic as well, then sighs as he regards the vast expanse of the village before them.

“Not far,” Harry promises. “Just to the end of the village. I can lead you through the most efficient route.”

Has Harry been exploring the kingdom? Tom is not sure how to feel about that. He had conspired to drive Harry away from him in the hopes that Harry would see sense, only now he finds himself unwillingly dragged down the cobblestone paths of the village as they head for the outskirts of the kingdom.

The buildings grow farther apart as they walk on. Bodies lessen in number, then fail to appear at all. Harry spares them no glance, does not pause to mourn. Desensitized to the sheer volume of unconscious villagers, perhaps.

“Nearly there,” Harry mutters. 

“Have you come across anyone?”

“No. We get few visitors here, and those with less tie to the kingdom must have fled upon the first sight of dark magic.”

Tom can’t fault them for that. If not for Harry, he would have looted this place and left for greener pastures.

“Better that they’ve gone to safety, then,” Tom says, though he doesn’t much care one way or the other.

Harry’s throat bobs in an approximation of a swallow. Tom doesn’t press him for a response, and so they continue their journey in relative silence.

As they pass the final row of cottages, Tom spots the barrier.

Thick, winding strands of thorns and brambles that form a never-ending chain of hedges. The thorns stretch as far as the eye can see. Tom doesn’t ask if it reaches all the way around the kingdom; he’s certain that it must. The ground at the base of the thorns is barren, devoid of even the most tenacious of weeds.

“It’s growing quickly,” Harry says. “I think, given enough time, it will dissuade even the most adventurous sort.”

While unnerving, Tom decides it is not a cause for concern. Even if the hedge becomes impenetrable, he has no desire to leave the kingdom while Harry remains tied to its lands.

* * *

“Take a break, Tom. Come sit with me in my room.”

Tom grunts in response and does not glance up from his latest sketch. The arrangement of runes he is attempting to outline writhes on the page. Tom blinks to clear the illusion, ignoring how the dark ink swims in and out of focus.

Harry sidles closer, the cool folds of his cloak sweeping against Tom’s hip. “Please?”

“It’s all the way across the castle.”

“You can take your scrolls with you, then. But really, Tom, this place is horrid. I can’t imagine Dumbledore spent more than a few hours here at a time. It’s so dreary. And you look cold; your nose is pink.”

Tom drums his fingers on the tabletop, considering. This chamber has felt draftier lately, though that may be due to his neglect of his person than the workings of the room.

“Please?” Harry repeats, pouting ostentatiously.

“Such pleas lack appeal without the tangible form to back them,” Tom retorts.

Harry shrugs in a fluid motion. Being a ghost has granted Harry an effortless grace that Tom had only ever witnessed during fencing and horseback riding. Typically, Harry’s motions are clumsy and eager, but now Harry glides across the stone floor with no physical body to hinder his movement.

“If you do not come with me,” Harry says mulishly, “then I will merge with my body and leave you here alone.”

It is an empty threat. Tom knows that Harry would never abandon him.

Knowing this does not stop him from rising to his feet. Harry beams, delighted, and prances towards the door.

Along the way, Tom wonders if he ought to move some of the bodies to other parts of the castle. That way Harry will not have to look upon them. That way Tom will not have to look upon them and be reminded of the curse he has failed to lift.

Harry has yet to comment on the absence of his parents, or on the stasis of his loyal subjects. But Tom knows that their torment must bring Harry great harm. Since Tom cannot save them, then he will move them aside so that they may rest in locked rooms and induce no guilt.

The prince’s bedchambers, strangely, are not much warmer than the workrooms below. Tom rushes to Harry’s bedside and applies a touch of magic to the sheets, heating them.

“I feel nothing when you do that,” Harry says idly. “It’s odd.”

Tom gingerly presses his palm against Harry’s forehead. Still warm, still alive. Perhaps it had been a mistake to leave the body here, unattended. “We will stay here,” Tom decides. “Or else visit regularly, to ensure nothing happens.”

Harry has already wandered over to the balcony window. “The skies reflect late autumn rather than late summer,” Harry muses. “What month must it be now? August?” He floats through the doors that lead outside, then calls back over his shoulder, “I can’t recall what the sun feels like, Tom. You must describe it to me. Come and join me.”

Tom follows the directive with reluctance, pacing to the balcony. Harry stands in the middle of the wide space, his gaze lifted to the skies. 

The world is drained of light and saturation, as though a sheer grey veil has been laid over the entire kingdom. An unpleasant wind ruffles at Tom’s hair, crisp and biting, dishevelling his dark curls. In the distance, thorns peek over the tops of the most distant cottages.

“The heavens themselves are distressingly devoid of cheer,” says Harry. “If another month passes, will we forget which side the sun rises from? I’ve already forgotten much of what it feels like to be human, to have an environment that responds to my touch. Everything is very far away from me now.”

Harry rotates in place, and his voice is full of tenderness as he says, “Everything except you, Tom.”

Tom’s breath catches in his throat. Harry’s eyes shine like crystals drenched in seawater. They are beautiful, as beautiful as eyes on a ghost can be.

“Let us sit,” Tom says roughly, the better to avoid the sudden ache in his chest. “And I will tell you of what the sun feels like.”

They settle on the cold stone, two almost lovers, side by side.

He and Harry stay there until night steals across the sky, chasing the day away, revealing what few stars shine brightly enough to pierce the heavy cloud cover.

Tom speaks for hours, until his throat goes raspy and he is forced to whisper, until Harry’s form goes blurry and distant. Eventually, his eyes slide shut from exhaustion and his body slumps against the icy railings, his mind at last succumbing to a sleep free of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are appreciated :)


	3. Part III and Part IV: Winter and Spring

**Part III: Winter**

* * *

When Tom wakes, it is to the cold caress of a stiff breeze. He jolts upright, nearly smacking his head against the stone behind him. Seconds slip by as his mind gradually returns to full functioning capacity. Tom stretches his arms out in front of him and groans at the strain. His legs are sprawled out in an unseemly manner, but this is not what captures his attention.

Harry is nowhere in sight.

Alarmed for some unfathomable reason, Tom scrambles to his feet and stumbles into the bedroom. The body is there, resting in the same position as before. Tom checks on it, then whirls to search the rest of the spacious room.

“Harry?” he calls. “Harry, where are you?”

No phantom form appears. Tom feels a tremor of panic roll down his spine before he remembers to check his magic.

The link is there. Tom shudders with relief. Harry is somewhere in the castle, or in the kingdom; he must have wandered off exploring while Tom was asleep.

After a moment’s debate—seek Harry out, or leave him be?—Tom decides to reside here, in Harry’s chambers, for the day. He will continue his work and keep watch over the body.

Thus the hours wear on. By the end of the day, Tom is concerned. It is unlike Harry to leave for so long without so much as a by your leave. However, everything _has_ been out of sorts lately, and so it is not unreasonable to think Harry wishes for space. 

Tom tucks Harry’s body under some blankets on the bed to ward off the cool air, then settles into a chair to think.

Periodic checks on his magic throughout the day have revealed no serious changes. If anything, the draw is less than usual, as if Harry now requires less energy to maintain a phantom form. Do ghosts need periods of recharge? Tom ponders over this, but then another thought occurs to him.

What if Harry has gone back to the brambles? Could he be trapped there? Tom is unfamiliar with this particular curse; he does not know what will happen if Harry floats past the barrier of thorns.

Tom tells himself to wait until tomorrow. He curls up on the large bed next to his sleeping beloved and closes his eyes, but his futile attempt at sleep only results in restlessness.

Ages before dawn, before what remains of the sun is set to rise, Tom’s magical link to Harry flickers like a dying candle flame.

_Enough of this._

Tom drags himself out of bed and rushes to the workroom. Once there, he sets about crafting a tracking spell. He will locate Harry and force him back to the castle. 

There are enough difficulties to be had without Harry wandering off and trapping himself in some haunted object or other similar nonsense. Incensed, Tom unwraps the hairs he had saved from Harry’s pillows and sets about putting them to use.

Some time later, Tom has a polished, spherical amethyst in his palm. A gentle pulse of magic fed into the glittering medium produces a thin golden rope of light that leads through the chamber door.

Tom follows the path of light up from the lower level of the castle. The gleaming thread winds along, meandering through many empty corridors that Tom has never ventured through.

Eventually, after many flights of stairs, the destination becomes clear: Harry is somewhere on the roof. 

A curious choice. Had Harry come here for the view?

Tom has little time to wonder before he ascends into open air, into the dripping red of the vibrant sunrise. The first thing he notes is the shocking, frigid atmosphere; the second is what lies at the end of his tracking thread.

Harry is curled in a ball, arms wrapped around his knees, laying on his side as he floats an inch or so above the edge of the castle rooftop.

“Harry!”

Tom runs forward. By the time Tom reaches him, Harry is already pulling into a sitting position and rubbing at his face. 

“Tom?” asks Harry. “Your eyes look crimson in this light, did you know?”

“What happened?” Tom snaps. His fingers grasp at nothing, hands phasing through the body he longs to hold in his embrace. 

Harry has the decency to look contrite. “I—I don’t know,” Harry admits. “I came up here to be away from everything. To be alone with my thoughts while you slept. I watched the sun rise over the mountains. I imagined that I was tired, that some rest would do me good. But I don’t require sleep, do I?” Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. “I felt… strange. Weaker. As though I was swept away by an ocean wave.”

“You will not leave my side again,” Tom commands. He dearly wishes he could shake Harry’s shoulders for emphasis. The stubborn fool will get himself killed before Tom can resurrect him properly. “Do you hear me? Never again.”

Harry’s face crumples in on itself. “I am sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean to worry you. I don’t know what came over me. I feel much better now, if it helps.”

Tom feels a stab of regret, followed by a stronger sweep of discomfort. Harry always argues with him. _Always._ Their courtship was built on banter, on a joint desire to chase the great intimacy of knowing someone else completely.

“Better now that I am here with you,” Tom says cautiously.

Harry smiles, but his gaze remains fixed, distant. “Yes. With you.”

Tom turns away. Harry has lost his fire and lacks the energy to fight back. A half existence is not enough; Tom knows that Harry must be miserable like this. Yet Harry endures it for him. 

Harry endures this out of love. 

* * *

Following Harry’s bout of weakness, Tom slides the various clues of their environment into the larger picture, locking each piece of the curse into place.

The kingdom is dying.

Tom imagines the future. He knows it will not end well.

The thorns will continue to expand, stretching above their heads, caging them in. The weather will worsen until the sun is only a memory, until all they know is the harrowing darkness of endless night and the merciless cold of permanent winter. 

The people will exist on, lifeless in their cursed slumber, but the surrounding lands will wither from the poison of the curse, and structures will crumble to dust around them.

And Tom—

Tom will die here, drained of his magic, nothing but a frozen corpse, forever haunted by a ghost.

* * *

“It _is_ cold,” Harry accuses, pointing a finger. “I asked you earlier, and you lied to me! But your face is pink, I can see it. Your cheeks are flushed.”

Tom grinds his teeth. He has avoided the lower levels for some weeks now, and Harry had never asked why. But now, even in the relative security of Harry’s bedchambers, Tom struggles to ignore the plummeting temperature.

The chill is hard to shake, and what he had once welcomed as an aid to stay awake now brings him nothing but dread. He has yet to tell Harry of his predictions, but soon it will be all he can think of—the inevitable end.

“A blanket, at least,” Harry says. “Or more clothing. And start a fire, damn it.”

“I have magic,” Tom answers brusquely. “Your concerns are exaggerated and misplaced.”

“You are going to perish from illness, and then who will save me?” Harry demands, crossing his arms over his chest. Faint trails of particles shadow his movements; a further reminder that Harry is not truly _here._

Tom closes his eyes, blocking out the sight, and lets Harry’s anger wash over him like a lullaby. “I am perfectly capable of caring for myself, Harry. I don’t require fussing. If I grow cold, which I am not, then I will take the appropriate measures. You worry over nothing.”

“You are so stubborn,” Harry says, displeased. “What if I was to wander off again? That is the brand of carelessness you encourage with your idiotic behaviour.”

“You won’t,” Tom says dangerously, opening his eyes once more. “You will do no such thing, or else I will find a way to trap you in this room. I will _not_ lose you again.”

Tom’s magic flares in the palms of his hands, drawn to the surface by his turbulent emotions. Tom forces it away, pushes it back down. Every scrap of magic he owns must be rationed now. Magical tests on the slumbering animals have been postponed while Tom dedicates his time to thought experiments. He must save his energy for attempts that have a decent chance of success.

“Then take care of yourself! I have a wardrobe full of clothing. Pick something.”

Exasperated, Tom retrieves a black wool cloak and drapes it over his shoulders. Then he raises a brow, mocking, and says, “There. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes,” Harry says, glaring. “For now.”

For now. Tom turns the words over in his head. How much longer do they have?

When his magic is gone, the spell that keeps Harry’s spirit tethered to this realm will die, taking the last of Tom’s sanity with it. In choosing Harry, he has sealed his fate.

“You should kiss me again,” Harry says suddenly, pulling Tom from his depressive thoughts.

Tom waves his hand in a dismissive motion. “What does it matter? You cannot feel it.”

“That is not my point,” Harry says, “and you know it.”

“It does nothing,” Tom says, voice empty of inflection. “There is no point to it.” He shifts his shoulders back against the heavy fabric of Harry’s cloak and shrugs. 

“The point is that I’ve asked you to,” Harry retorts. “I want to see if it works now.”

Tom won’t admit it, but the idea makes him nauseous. What is it about love that causes him such unease? “Do you think my feelings for you have miraculously changed?” he challenges. “That torturous months in this dismal castle have trained my heart to pry itself open for you?”

“I think that love is an idea that grows,” Harry says quietly. “Even in darkness, even on the most hopeless of nights. I have always thought you capable of miracles, Tom, and I believe love is the greatest miracle of them all.”

“You are hardly alive,” Tom says, cold and unforgiving. “You loathe every second you spend here, trapped without a physical form. You are nothing like the Harry that I remember. I would find more resemblance in your limp body than I do with your vapid spirit. If I could ever love you, there is no chance for it now.”

Harry does not shed a tear at this; he may not even be capable. Instead, he blows out a frustrated sigh and shakes his head. Tom does not understand how Harry can remain dedicated in the face of such cruelty.

“I will stay with you until the end,” Harry says. “If I cannot convince you with my words, then I only hope my actions will suffice. I love you, Tom. That never changes.”

* * *

Winter has never bothered Tom. As a child, he kept himself warm with magic. Even the most threadbare of blankets could function as a blazing hearth if he so desired. The only fear he’d had then was of being discovered, of being dragged before the royal guards and forced to bend knee.

Now, however, he knows new fear. His magic is limited. By his own self-restraint, no less. His struggle against the cold is a war he will lose.

Tom clenches his fingers up to get the blood flowing. His nails need trimming; they bite into the rough meat of his palm, generating sharp points of pain. But the pain is preferable to the other discomforts, and so he will bear it.

Outside on the balcony, Harry calls for him.

“Tom! Oh, come and see. There’s snow on the ground!”

Tom forces himself into the frigid air. Indeed, there is a heavy blanket of snow draped over all the little cottages, all the footpaths, all the stone structures that make up the kingdom.

Harry gazes, ecstatic, at the snowy castle courtyard. “Let us go out. Please, Tom?”

If Harry was not a ghost, he would be vibrating in place, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Harry’s eagerness tugs at Tom’s memories of previous winters in the castle. All of Harry’s futile attempts to coax him outside to play in the snow are flashing before his eyes.

Tom cannot say no.

The courtyard is freezing and miserable. There is little light to reflect off of the snow crystals, and so it might as well be late evening given the amount of snow that is actually visible. Tom hates it all before he even steps foot in it, but he contorts his face into a neutral look of boredom, as Harry will be expecting from him.

“Is this not great?” Harry asks rhetorically, dashing towards the large center fountain, which is now full of ice. “I wish I could make a proper sculpture.”

“What would you even want to build? Only children play in the snow,” Tom says, derisive.

Harry tsks in disagreement. “You are not much older than I am. Surely you remember what fun it is to make snow figures.”

Tom sticks his hands in his pockets, hoping the motion is casual, and says, “Again, I must ask what you find appealing about children’s activities.”

“There is something lovely about fresh snow,” Harry says. He drops his eyes to the ground, to the untouched snow that he cannot trample underfoot. “Do you never miss your childhood, Tom?”

“There is nothing to miss,” Tom says. “The past does not matter to me.”

Harry hums softly, then floats up and onto the icy fountain. The fountain itself is fairly massive, three tiers high, with a miniature lion on the top to spout water. 

Tom watches as Harry spins around on the solid sheet of ice, mimicking the graceful motions of a dancer as he glides effortlessly across the surface.

_Beautiful._

Well worth the effort of leaving the shelter of the castle, to see the happiness alight in Harry’s eyes, to witness the soft dimples on either side of his smile. To bring a modicum of joy into the joyless kingdom they live in.

Tom observes Harry for some time, greedy for the warmth of Harry’s laughter. It stirs a contentment in him that he’d thought forgotten, lost to the curse.

The illusion of perfection is shattered when Tom sneezes rather violently.

Harry freezes, then rushes over. “Are you too cold? Are you sick?”

“It was only a sneeze.” Tom glowers darkly, then forces the displeasure off of his features.

Too quickly, perhaps, because Harry squints at him, his eyes roaming over Tom’s face, searching for secrets.

“Go back to your snow,” Tom tells him.

Harry casts a look at the white wonderland around them. A blast of wind rushes by, and Tom can feel his teeth trembling in his skull.

“I can’t touch any of it,” Harry says.

No snow sculptures, no snow angels. No snowball tosses into Tom’s neatly-combed hair. 

Tom wishes more than anything that they could touch each other, but in this moment, he would have given anything for Harry to be able to enjoy one final snow-filled day of bliss.

It is then that the sky opens up, and the start of fresh snowfall flutters down upon them.

The tiny flakes drop through the air, dusting Tom’s cloak and hair. Since they had come here, Tom has not moved from the front of the archway, but now he tromps across the ground, disturbing the pristine blanket of snow with his boots, kicking up clumps of ice as he makes his way to the fountain.

Harry follows, mute. Tom brushes off a section of stone wide enough for them both and sits down. Harry sits in the empty space on Tom’s right. His face is all pinched together, but he doesn’t speak.

Sniffling, Tom looks back up at the sky, letting the snow collect on his scarf and head.

They sit until the snow coats Harry’s seat in a thin layer of white.

“Let’s go back in,” Harry says softly, “and get you warmed up.”

Harry’s hand stretches out, occupying the space where Tom’s hand rests. Tom hardly feels the chill of it, his hands are already so numb. 

So Tom can tell himself that they are holding hands, that Harry is sitting beside him, whole and real. He can tell himself that someday they will see the sun again and maybe even believe it.

* * *

Tom prods at the fireplace while Harry watches from a distance. The curtains are drawn shut over the glass doors, blocking the balcony from view. Though the hour is early, Tom knows the world outside is only black and white, darkness and pure snow.

“Come closer,” Tom says.

Harry has been lurking in the far corner, arms folded. Now that the days blur into the nights, now that all that remains is the cold, Harry refuses to draw near, knowing that to do so will only harm Tom further. Tom doesn’t care for the cold anymore; he’d rather have Harry close to him, ghostly chill or no.

When Harry fails to move, Tom adds, “The magic will work better if you are not so far away.”

“Then you should save your magic for yourself.”

Tom barks a laugh that quickly dissolves into a wracking cough. The layers of blankets and cloaks draped over his shoulders shiver with the violent motion. Tom exhales, fast and heavy, fogging the air in front of him as he catches his breath. 

“What does it matter if I die in one day or in two?” Tom asks. “I’ll die regardless. Small discomforts are meaningless to me now. I only want you by my side in death, the way we were meant to be in life.”

_Grant me this request, so I know you will be the lovely image that consumes my vision before I go._

“At least go rest on the bed,” Harry pleads. 

The bed, where Harry’s body lays, unyielding despite the extremes of their environment. A source of heat; one that Tom refuses to touch.

Tom eyes the flickering flames of the fireplace, weak even after the addition of more kindling, and represses a shiver.

“If you go on the bed,” Harry bargains, “then I will come closer.”

Tom does not scowl, but it is a near thing. Harry must be able to tell anyhow, because the corner of his mouth twitches with a hint of humour.

“I do this because I care,” says Harry, and though the tone is wry, there is an undercurrent of fondness.

Tom forces his legs to move and picks himself up off the carpet. He is too weary to argue, chilled to his bones by the cold air of the drafty, hollow castle. If Harry will give him what he wants, then he is willing to compromise.

Peeling back the bed covers, Tom examines Harry’s motionless form. 

“Does it not bother you anymore? To see yourself like this?”

What must it be like for Harry, to see Tom get into bed with another body, even if that body is his own? To know that the contact they both crave is possible, but only as an imitation of the real touches they once shared?

“You are letting all the heat escape,” Harry complains. “Get in the bed, Tom. I don’t care for what you do with my body. Heaven knows we’re well past romance.”

Tom’s head throbs, his vision abruptly spotting with black splotches. He does not bother unlacing his boots before he lies down on the bed. 

_It is warmer,_ he thinks bitterly. 

But it is not what he wants.

“If you had minded your health sooner,” Harry mutters, “you would not be so weak now.” But he does as promised, approaching Tom’s side and hovering by the farthest bedpost.

Tom scoffs in lieu of a verbal response. The exertion of moving has drained him, but what is important is that he stays conscious and alert. The sight of Harry is all that keeps his eyes open, and he will not waste a second of it.

“Tom?” Harry drifts towards him, worried face looming. 

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound it. Or look it. But for the sake of peace, I’ll hold my tongue.”

If Tom had the energy to roll his eyes, he would. Instead, he shuffles over to his left, where the sheets are warmer. He keeps his eyes fixed on Harry.

Harry blinks down at him, expression full of sadness.

“Are you afraid?” Tom asks, barely a whisper. The condensation of his breath is so weak that it does not escape far past his lips.

“Of dying?” Harry shakes his head. “There are worse things to fear.”

Eternal sleep isn’t quite like dying. But maybe for Harry, it is. Maybe the curse of an unconscious existence is exactly like death. A blissful state of nothingness, of strange dreams and fleeting moments of lucidity.

Harry is suddenly very close. If Tom focuses enough, he can ignore the darkness of the room and act as thought Harry’s faintness is a product of the absence of light. Tom shifts backwards on the pile of pillows so he can see better, then realizes Harry’s mouth has been moving the entire time.

“Tom?” Harry waves a hand. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” Tom says, “I am.” He is listening, always, even if the words wash over him as a muddle of nonsense.

“Then will you?”

The question has no meaning. Tom rolls back the seconds, plays the sweet, honeyed tones of Harry’s voice over again. The context becomes apparent, and so does Harry’s request—

“Do you _ever_ give up?”

“No,” Harry says. _“Never._ If I am to witness—if you—” The words stumble against each other. Harry pauses, then says, “I want you to kiss me.”

“It is not your job to fix me.”

“I never said that it was.”

“Fine. Then you agree it is a useless endeavour.”

Harry blows out a frustrated sigh. “You know I do not believe that. Why do you insist on saying such things? If these are our final moments together, then—” Harry blinks, his eyes glistening; from unshed tears or some other ghostly attribute, Tom is not sure.

“Please,” Harry says, “permit my tired heart this one last act of compassion. Even if you are not my true love, Tom, you are _my_ love nonetheless, and I will not allow you to leave me until you understand this.”

Tom cannot refuse Harry anything. Not now, not ever. 

Even in death, in choosing to remain here, surrounded by a crown of cursed thorns, he has submitted to Harry Potter.

If this is his last act, then he will not regret it.

Thus Tom sits up, adopts the position he has taken so many times before:

His elbow braced on the bed, his right hand delicately placed, his body curling next to Harry’s. If they will lie here together until the end of the world, two bodies with silent hearts, it is fitting.

Tom lowers his head, his curls tumbling down to brush against Harry’s forehead. 

And then they kiss. 

The heated press of Harry’s skin is a godsend against Tom’s frostbitten lips. Tom falls into the sensation, chasing the heat, his blood roaring in his ears.

When Tom pulls away, he is gasping. The burning in him has spread behind his eyes, causing them to water, distorting his sight. Harry’s face is slipping away from him, fading into the darkness. 

Tom wonders if he is dying now. Is this why he no longer feels solidly in his body? Perhaps he is about to float away and become a ghost. Tom hopes he will join Harry’s ghost, that they will share a proper kiss before Tom’s magic runs dry. 

If there are gods, if there are gods of love more powerful than death, then Tom hopes they will take pity on him, for he had tried, vainly, to save Harry in the only way he knew how. 

Magic is no replacement for love, but surely his effort must count for something? If what he feels now is still not enough, then it never will be.

He feels so much now. He feels enough for it to hurt.

_Please,_ Tom thinks, eyes sliding shut. _Please. I love him._

* * *

The sun rises slowly over the mountains outside the balcony, light creeping in between the gaps of the curtains.

Aside from the two huddled forms in the bed, Harry’s chambers are quite empty.

* * *

**Part IV: Spring**

* * *

Harry’s dark lashes flutter once, twice, three times.

Emerald eyes open into the dim light of the bedroom, roaming over the arrogant angles of aristocratic bone structure, the tangled waves of brown hair pinned under a woolen hat, the piercing irises that only appear deep red during sunset.

_“H-Harry?”_

The voice is rough. It lacks the charming, almost sensual edge it used to have. But Harry knows this voice. He hears it in his dreams. He feels it in his soul.

“Hello,” whispers Harry, and _oh,_ isn’t it strange to have vibrations in his throat, to have to swallow around the syllables as he speaks?

So many little things he had taken for granted while he was alive.

Not anymore.

The world is incredibly overwhelming after long weeks of being insensate, but the chill fills him with the indescribable pleasure of _feeling._ Harry lifts himself off the bed, bumps his nose against Tom’s in a desperate bid for contact. 

Harry does not flinch at the ice-cold touch of Tom’s skin against his own. He twists his fingers into the fabric of Tom’s shirt and tugs _hard_ so that they are chest to chest, mouths melting into each other, kissing, kissing, _kissing._

Breathing is an afterthought, a foreign concept, but Harry doesn’t care about that, not while Tom is here and _he_ is here and they are both so _real_ that it physically hurts, a tight fist around his heart. His heart, now beating a raucous staccato against his ribcage, free at last to declare its love in the world of the living.

Tom is mumbling something as he presses his face against Harry’s hair. His hands tremble on the collar of Harry’s vest. Harry wraps his arms around Tom without a second thought, squeezing as hard as he can, hoping that this moment is not a dream that will be snatched away from them.

Tom is still speaking: quiet rasps against the side of Harry’s head.

Harry strains with ears he has not used in months, listens for the words—

_“I love you. I love you. I love you.”_

They have time. They have so much time now to say these words, to hear them.

Harry covers Tom’s lips with another kiss, holds Tom in his arms until there comes a frantic knock at the door, voices shouting. 

Dizzy with relief, Harry calls for them to enter. The kingdom around them is waking once more.

Just outside the castle, the snow is beginning to melt.

  
  


**END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i really enjoyed writing this story. i hope you all enjoyed reading it as well. 
> 
> any and all kudos, bookmarks, and comments are greatly appreciated. <3

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


End file.
